Mercy
by Alraune
Summary: HD Slash. Warnings inside. The war in a demoralised Wizarding World is slowly coming to an end, when Draco is captured by the Order of the Phoenix. Alone in his cell, reality slowly fades; and it is only Potter who can hold him in this world.


Warnings: Slash, Lemon, Dark, Chara Death - this story is rated M for a reason, so proceed with caution!

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me; everything belongs to the great JKR!

A/N: Another translation of my German stories; this story does not exactly follow a planned-out plot; it is rather supposed to show the feelings during the last week of war.

It was written for a kink challenge; and it is quite dark (darker than I had planned…), so if that is not your kind of thing, you'd better turn back… for the others, enjoy!

xXx

Draco tastes blood when his head bangs against the rough wall along the staircase, but he does not make a sound of pain. _Don't show weakness, not in front of them_. They rip off his Death Eater cloak, his robe, until he wears no more than a thread-bare shirt and his underpants, kneeling on the floor. They shove him onto the ground and the Mudblood pulls a Muggle lighter from her pocket, setting his cloak on fire and burning it in front of his eyes. Maybe she likes doing it the Muggle way.

The gleam in her eyes dies with the fire extinguishing, however, and with a swirl of her robes she makes the smoke churn. Draco's eyes are burning and he has to cough. They laugh at him. Then, they leave.

Draco waits for them to come back. To torture him, to laugh at him, to humiliate him. But no one comes. He is alone in the darkness, lying on a mattress so thin he can feel every inch of the rough floor. He does not know what time it is and it drives him crazy. He does not know if he has been in here for hours, or for days. His stomach hurts with hunger and he can only breathe through his mouth so he need not smell his own excrements.

As slow and tenacious as oil, a revelation creeps into his mind: that he is their captive. That they took his freedom. That they will not let him go. That he may die in here, possibly. That it is dark and he does not know where he is. That he cannot see.

"Help me," he whispers, not knowing whom he is speaking to. His hands reach forward, colliding with the rough wall, and his knuckles get bruised. The stones are cold when he presses his hands against the wall. "Help me!" His voice is louder now, but rough and hoarse. He cannot remember when he spoke for the last time. It must have been weeks, months possibly. "Help me!" The words feel like claws in his throat, but they feel good. As though they were scraping something away, as though there was something underneath. Now he is screaming and his voice is rebounding from the walls.

This time, he is smarter and he counts how often he screams. Two words, every word one second. Ninety times, he cries until his voice breaks. One hundred and eighty seconds. Three minutes feel like eons.

Yet, no one comes. Maybe he is alone in here. In a huge, abandoned house, where he will die all alone, unheard and unseen. Again and again, the thoughts of loneliness roll through his mind like waves, and finally he falls asleep with exhaustion.

He wakes from a stinging pain on his left arm; he screams and thrashes. When he bruises his skin on the wall, he screams again and rolls onto his stomach. Only now he realizes that he is able to see. There is light.

He has to blink several times until his eyes get used to the dull, unsteady light of a candle. There is a bright red mark on his arm and it burns with pain. Reflexively, Draco presses his hand on the mark and looks up.

The candle is held by Potter. But he doesn't look like Potter. He doesn't look human at all. He is so thin it is almost ridiculous, his bones prominent like twigs under his skin. Don't they have anything to eat? His skin is translucent like paper, his hair dull and tangled, almost reaching his shoulders. His eyes are huge in his pointy, hollow face and Draco feels goose-bumps run over his skin when he looks into Potter's eyes.

He cannot find words in his empty, hazy mind to describe the look in Potter's eyes, but it reminds him of a wild animal.

"I heard you screaming," Potter says. "What is it?"

Draco is staring at him. Doesn't he understand? "You hold me captive."

"Yes." Potter moves his finger through the dancing flame several times and inspects the black mark on his finger. He does not say anything else.

"I am hungry," Draco says finally. Potter produces a piece of bread from his pocket. He throws it into Draco's direction, but he cannot catch it. Inches from his greedy fingers, it drops to the floor and Draco bows down to pick it up, but Potter is faster than him.

"You have always been a bad Seeker," he says and only now Draco hears how thin his voice is. Again, he throws the bread to Draco, but again he cannot catch it.

At seventh try, Draco manages to catch the bread and immediately wolfs it down so Potter cannot take it away from him again. Is there a derisive smile on Potter's face, ghosting over his features? Draco cannot see clearly in the flimsy light.

"Is there anything else?" Potter asks.

"What time is it?"

Potter shrugs. "I don't know. Don't care. I don't even know what day it is today. Or what month. Forgot."

"December," Draco says. "You captured me on the 28th of December."

"Time does not matter," Potter replies.

"Tell me whether it is day or night, please," Draco says – he cannot believe his own voice, but he actually _pleads_ Potter.

"I don't know," Potter repeats. "I haven't looked out of a window for a long time."

Draco stares at him and doesn't know what to say. Faintly, he remembers they imprisoned him. "I want you to let me go."

"We won't," Potter said, "we're enemies, remember?"

"Why don't you question me?"

"You know nothing of importance," Potter says, and Draco flinches. Oddly, that hurts.

"The Dark Lord has –"

"I know," Potter says and he sounds tired, infinitely tired, infinitely exhausted. "I know." Then he leaves and Draco cannot say another word.

How does Potter know? And if he truly knows, why does he not do anything? But then Draco remembers Potter's face, empty like a sheet of paper. He does not look like he cares about anything. As though nothing matters to him anymore. Suddenly Draco remembers that Potter has not been with them when they carried him to his cell. He hasn't realized Potter's absence before.

xXx

_The sun is unbearably bright in my eyes. Drops of sea foam, tasting salty like tears, run down my face, which is used to shadows and stale rooms now; and my naked, out-stretched arms are sticky with salt. It does not feel like reality and I cannot feel the cold, either, piercing my skin. The only thing I can feel is the wind, rough and wild and just like you, full of fury about things only you know of._

xXx

Days melt into nights and nights melt into days and Draco has lost any sense of time. He has lost any sense of anything; he mostly isn't even hungry anymore. Sometimes, the door creaks open and a pale hand appears in the gap, a thin slice of light creeps over the floor, and a piece of bread is placed on the floor, or a bottle of water or, sometimes, a bowl of soup. Then, the hand disappears, and the light disappears, too. But Draco knows they do not only bring him food, but sometimes they use cleaning charms on him while he is asleep. Not very often, but sometimes his hair is unnaturally dry and smooth when he wakes up, as is typical for cleaning charms.

Once, he tries to count the seconds between the meals so he might find a rhythm. At five thousand four hundred and eighty he falls asleep, though, and when he wakes, the food is already there. After, he has given up trying to find out the time.

Sometimes, Potter visits, sometimes while Draco is asleep. He knows because the mattress is warm and there is a small hollow where he sat. Draco wonders why Potter never wakes him. But sometimes, Draco is awake and then Potter lights a candle and Draco examines the battered, ugly walls, the dirty floor, the thin mattress as though he couldn't get enough of them.

And he examines Potter, who sits next to him silently, legs stretched out. Most of his pants are a bit short so his pale ankles peek out, almost as pale as Draco's skin. His sweaters are too large and ugly, his wrists like twigs without bark. The skin is stretched over his face with prominent bones, his lips always thin and pinched, which gives him a hard expression he never had at Hogwarts. His face is bereft of colour, bereft of emotion; only the pulsing vein on his throat and his occasional blink are signs he is still alive.

During his first visits, Draco asks him when they will let him go; he pleads, threatens, but all of his words are like drops of water on stone. Then Draco begins talking about earlier times, about Hogwarts. About their enmity, their fights, Quidditch games, the inter-House rivalry, the teachers, the lessons. Potter looks at him mildly interested then, as though Draco told him about the life of a stranger. Sometimes, Draco asks: "Do you remember?" and Potter says, "I can't," as if he was an old man.

"Why can't you remember?" Draco asks today. "It was not long ago."

"I forget so much," Potter whispers, "everything blurs before my eyes. The faces, Hogwarts, Quidditch, all the things I experienced… everything is like a mist slipping through my fingers." He reaches out with his hand, his fingers like spiders' legs, and claws into thin air. "Sometimes, Ron and Hermione show me photos of earlier times, and then I believe to remember. But I don't know whether it is real or whether it is an illusion. Nothing is real, these days. The only thing that is real is you."

Draco bites his lip. Why does Potter open himself up for him? Is he following a plot? Is he trying to pry information from Draco? But then Draco looks at him, dark, heavy lashes lowered, his hand in his lap, curled into a fist. And Draco knows that Potter does not care. Slowly, a plan forms in his head. Maybe he can push through the shield of ice surrounding Potter. Not with taunts or violence, as he might have done in earlier days.

He slips nearer to Potter, pondering whether he should wrap an arm around Potter's shoulders. But then he feels silly. "I know what you are talking about," he says carefully. "I have forgotten many things, too; so many memories I pushed away."

Potter turns around and looks at him as if he actually saw him for the first time. "I don't push any memories away," he says. "They just fade, you know?"

Draco does not know, so he stays silent and decides to place his arm on Potter's shoulder. But he doesn't react, stays in his slumped position instead. "Why do you do that?" he asks after a while.

"Oh, I –" Draco removes his arm, Potter shakes his head.

"No, do it again." Hesitantly, Draco puts his arm back, feeling odd and out of place. But Potter doesn't say anything else; after a while he leaves and takes the candle and the light with him.

In the darkness, which feels like home to him now, Draco ponders. Something is not right about Potter. Sometimes, all emotions seem to be sucked out of him – or has he forgotten about them? But why? Draco ponders, but he does not know.

xXx

Draco is sure that a long time has passed until Potter returns. He ate ten times, if he didn't count wrong. And lately, numbers fade from his mind so easily; sometimes he quietly counts his fingers, counting up to hundred and up to thousand. Whenever he makes a mistake, he hits the wall and starts over again. The pain of his knuckles meeting rough stone feels good. The pain is clear and slicing and reminds him of the fact that there things in the wavering darkness; things that are real and tangible.

Today, he is busy counting the stones in one wall. His fingertips brush over rough stones and mortar; and he counts very carefully. He wants to calculate the number of stones in his cell and then verify if his calculations were right. The thought keeps him occupied and he is almost greedy to find out.

The door opens and Potter enters. Today, he does not have a candle with him, but his wand, which is so bright Draco has to close his eyes.

"What are you doing?" Potter asks vaguely interested and Draco hears how Potter steps up to him.

"I am counting the stones," Draco says, his voice hoarse.

Potter takes his hand, turns it around and touches his fingers carefully. "They are rough," he remarks.

"Well, I don't get a manicure here," Draco says, a touch of defiance in his voice.

Potter does not react, however, obviously he is not susceptible to sarcasm.

Instead, he pulls Draco down onto the mattress and throws his wand in one corner of Draco's cell; and it is as bright as the sun.

"I never knew one could perform spells without holding a wand in your hand," Draco whispers, unwillingly impressed.

"I can," Potter says. They are sitting close to each other, heads bowed. Both of them stare at Potter's hand which is stroking Draco's fingers, as though he could undo the roughness.

A bit surprised, Draco realizes that Potter's body is warm, unusually hot, almost as though he burned from the inside. It feels comfortable in his cold, damp cell and Draco wonders how Potter's body can waste that much energy for heat. Only his hands are a bit cooler and dry as parchment and Draco wants to warm his icy fingers. Carefully, he closes one hand around Potter's, and then his other hand, too.

"Why are you doing that?" Potter asks, mildly interested, and for the first time he looks into Draco's eyes. He almost flinches as Potter's empty, glassy eyes suddenly burn with an eerie intensity.

Nervously, he shrugs and swallows. "My hands are cold," he whispers, "I am cold."

"Calor," Potter says and his wand spreads warmth, too. But it is artificial and not real like the warmth of his body. Draco needs things that are real. He slips closer to Potter, until their shoulders, their arms, their legs touch. This time, Potter places his arm around Draco's shoulders. Draco waits for something to happen.

But nothing happens, and time passes, drowning in light and warmth. When Draco wakes up, Potter is gone and the warmth is gone, too. He does not know whether he misses Potter, or the warmth.

xXx

The door opens and Draco sits up expectantly, but this time, Granger enters. Her mouth is a thin, furious line and her wand is pointed on Draco's chest. He assumes she will hurt him, possibly kill him. But he does not feel afraid, only empty.

But she only asks one question of him. "What have you done to him?" she asks and her voice is dark with fury, and worry.

"What?" Draco says. "Potter? I didn't do anything." He spreads his arms wide, feeling part of his old acerbity awaken. Granger is an opponent, and a fight will give him strength. "What might I ever do? I am unarmed, defenceless, weakened, captured. How did you come upon this idea?"

She stares at him darkly. "I know he visits you, Malfoy. I wonder why."

Draco shrugs. He does not know, either. He suspects, but how could he know what is going on in Potter's head?

"He has changed," Granger says slowly. "Since you are here. You destroy…" She breathes deeply, giving him a glance burning with hatred, and leaves. As always, Draco is left behind.

xXx

They haven't brought him food for a very long time. Draco thinks he must starve; his stomach is but a burning hollow and he is nauseous with hunger. After an eternity, Potter comes back, carrying slices of dry bread, a bit of cheese and some water.

Draco lunges at the food like a ravenous animal, wolfing everything down as fast as he can, almost without chewing, only swallowing, swallowing so fast he is nauseous again. Breathless, he leans against the wall and marvels in the feeling of not being hungry. Potter is watching him with bright eyes; this time he only has a candle with him. "You have been gone for a long time," Draco says.

Potter doesn't say anything; slowly and carefully he places the candle on the floor and then he lunges at Draco. Everything is happening so fast Draco only realizes what is going on when Potter is over him; fingers digging into bony shoulders and knees pressed into his thighs. Potter kisses him, but it is, in fact, not a kiss; rather a hungry, clumsy clash of teeth and lips that have not been kissed for too long.

But Draco likes it when Potter's teeth dig into his lower lip. Likes that he scratches over Draco's body until his fingernails are dark with blood. Likes that Potter clenches his wrists so tightly his blood flow is constricted. He likes it because the clear, real pain reminds him of the fact that he is still alive, that there is a world apart from his own small, dark, muggy universe.

And he likes that there is something strange, indefinable burning in Potter's eyes, when he mingles his sweat with Draco's blood and licks his fingers. Something that has not been in Potter's eyes before. Potter has moved downwards so he can feel Potter's erection pressing against his own. And with the way Potter looks at him, Draco forgets everything around them and wants nothing but him, him, him. Nothing but his smooth skin with the sharp hipbones underneath. Nothing but his body, trembling and heaving with heavy breaths.

Time stretches around them when Draco opens Potter's trousers very slowly, his fingers carefully digging through the fabric. The moment when his fingers close around Potter's cock feels exquisite and endless. Potter gasps and Draco moves his hand up and down; Potter's eyes are closed, his eyelids fluttering. Draco watches him, trying to fathom what is going on in Potter's mind, and what is going on in his own mind. He does not know what is happening, but he knows it is good. It is real.

Like a butterfly beating its wings, Potter opens his eyes and there is a different look in his eerily bright eyes. He licks his fingers, bowing over Draco, so close, so close, and his hand slides over Draco's crotch. "You like that?" he whispers; his breath is hot on Draco's neck and he cannot help but wonder about the warmth.

"Yes," he breathes, clenching his teeth, when Potter abruptly tightens his grip, so much it hurts. He cannot suppress a moan. "I know you like that, too," Potter whispers hoarsely, "I can see it in your eyes." His fingers brush over Draco's forehead, slick with sweat although he is freezing. "I know you like it when I stroke your cock, but I know you like it when I'm rough. When I rub you so hard you scream, when I take your cock into my mouth, that is what you like." His lips are warm on Draco's ear, sucking slightly and Draco shudders; and Potter's voice, trembling with suppressed want, arouses him more than Potter's hand around his cock. "Do you want me to fuck you?" His whisper is so quiet Draco can rather feel than hear the question, but he knows it anyway. And he knows the answer.

"Yes," he says. And when Potter pulls down their trousers, pushes the first finger, slick with spit, into him, Draco suddenly knows why Potter reminds him of a wild animal. It is not his hounded, haggard look. It is the greed in his eyes.

Draco closes his eyes and then he is falling. He is tumbling through endless, black nothing; and no one is holding him until Potter catches him. His fingers, digging into Draco's hips, his teeth scraping over Draco's throat, his cock in Draco's ass; these are the things that hold him in reality. Draco hears himself screaming, with pain and lust, when Potter thrusts into him, deep and hard and incredibly satisfying. He wraps his legs around Potter, arching his back, pressing up against him, against the fist rubbing his cock, wishing it may never end.

But it ends when Potter bites his shoulder, his fist closing around Draco's cock so fiercely he cannot help but surrender to the fire in his mind and be burned. He sucks in cold air and thinks he must suffocate from emotions exploding inside him.

Potter breathes as heavily as Draco does and rolls down slowly. "You are bleeding," he says casually, dipping his fingers into blood on Draco's shoulder, where he has bitten him, and examines them, his expression thoughtful.

"That is good," Draco gasps and slowly he remembers what breathing feels like, breathing and not only sucking in oxygen. "It feels good." The pain pulses comfortingly along his collarbone and carries him back to clarity.

There is smile on Potter's face, thin as a veil. It is the first time Draco sees him smile in here and it looks like he has forgotten how to smile. He draws sluggish patterns of blood on Draco's skin, then dips his fingers in Draco's sperm and licks them. "You taste most exquisite," he says roughly.

"I know," Draco says and they laugh. It sounds distorted and hoarse as neither has laughed for a very long time.

xXx

_When I remember, a smile ghosts over my face, frozen with cold I cannot feel. I believed I could see you, could see through you. I believed I could understand you. Yes, I understood your desire, your violence, but not you. I believe I can see you in the sea; and the sea is like you, deep and endless and full of pain and agony._

xXx

From that day on (or maybe from that night, Draco does not know, but he does not care either) things change. Potter visits him more often now, regularly. Draco is not hungry for the food he sometimes has with him, but hungry for his body, his voice, his hands, his cock.

Whenever he hears steps, he sits up expectantly, staring at the door, trembling with anticipation. But today Potter doesn't come, but Weasley instead. He is very tall and slender, not thin and haggard like Potter, and his pale face is bright in the darkness. He closes the door behind him and stares at Draco nervously.

"What do you want?" Draco asks finally as though Weasley were a visitor who had rung his doorbell unexpectedly.

"Talk to you," Weasley says roughly, but not unkindly. "I am… I have… I know you are fucking Harry," he says hesitantly.

"Does that pose a problem?" Draco asks.

Weasley sighs as if he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. "Yes," he says slowly, "yes, probably it is. But Harry has changed. Hermione is worried because he is even more dismissive towards us than before. He disagrees with her; he has never done that before."

"That can't be a bad thing," Draco sneers.

Weasley ignores him. "But I think you are good for him. He eats more, he speaks more." He sounds like a mother worried about her child. "He takes part in what is happening, you know? He even hung up photos of Hogwarts in his room, as though… it meant something to him. It is as if he were alive."

Draco is silent.

"It is as if you give life back to him. I don't know why you are doing it, though." Weasley's voice gets louder and stronger. "Whether you are following a perfidious plot, whether you plan to betray us or whether you just want to be fucked. Personally, I believe you plan to betray us. But I am grateful."

"I am honoured," Draco says after a while.

"No." Weasley shakes his head. "You don't give a fuck. You don't believe me. But I will show my gratitude." Nervously, he fumbles in his pocket and produces a tiny bag. "We know your family fortune has been frozen by the Dark Lord himself," he says calmly. "We know you are destitute. We know you have lived on stolen food before we captured you. You have nothing, Malfoy." He smiles and suddenly, Draco is afraid.

"You have nothing but your body and your words. But you are helping Harry, and so we – _I_ will help you. Harry is my best friend and I am happier than I can say that he is in his right mind again. So…" He shakes the bag and there is a clinking sound. "Since you started fucking, Harry has been with you seven times. Here are seven Sickles. I will give you more. Hide it well so Harry can't see it."

"What am I supposed to buy with that money?" Draco asks. "Here is nothing I might want to buy."

"You can use it when you are free," Weasley says indifferently.

"You will let me go?" For a heartbeat, there is hope and everything else is forgotten

Weasley shakes his head. "No. But we won't hold out for very long. Voldemort will find us and he will kill all of us, if Harry doesn't miraculously manage to kill him before that. But he will spare you – he will humiliate you and cast you out, but you will live." Draco notices he says Voldemort, as though he were not afraid of him any longer – but Draco knows that fear of the Dark Lord's cruelty turns to desperation soon enough.

Weasley throws the bag at him and leaves before Draco can even say a word.

xXx

Draco is dozing, his mind tumbling through veils of insignificance. Potter has not been here for several days (at least he assumes that two meals equal a day). The longer Potter is not with him, the harder it gets to keep his mind sharp and clear and so he often fades away without realizing time passing.

When the door opens, he flinches and straightens up. It is indeed Potter, but he looks different. Draco almost believes there is a bit of colour in his face, but it might be an illusion, caused by the fluttering candle light. His eyes are not dark and empty, but examine Draco curiously.

Expectantly, he looks at Potter who is coming closer and kneels next to him on the mattress. Draco closes his eyes, expecting a kiss, a hand, either tender or greedy, but instead something is placed over his eyes and before he can say a word, Potter has blindfolded him. It does not make much of a difference, in fact, but his eyes have gotten used to the dusky darkness and he can see shapes and move in the darkness.

But now there is nothing but blackness before his eyes, like at the beginning of his imprisonment which must have been ages ago as he can scarcely remember. "Come with me," Potter says, his voice trembling with expectation, and pulls him up.

"What is that supposed to be?" Draco asks, not knowing if he should be afraid. Potter says nothing, but he takes Draco's wrists, pushing him forward. Clumsily, Draco stumbles forward and he knows they are leaving his cell. The ground, the air, the darkness are the same, but still it feels different on the outside.

"Be careful with the stairs," Potter warns him. "There are twenty-five steps." Together, their voices getting louder with every step, they count the stairs. Upon their arrival, Draco's knees are trembling; he is not used to walking anymore and even less to climbing stairs.

But Potter pushes him further on and Draco breathes in air which is not old and stale, but fresh and smells like food and people who have breathed that same air. "What are you up to?" he repeats. "Where are the others?"

"Don't know," Potter says. "Something about Death Eaters. I'm never allowed to go with them because I might be killed – and then we had no more chance. Like we ever had one. We are all alone here." He lets go of Draco's wrists and his fingers brush along Draco's sides, resting on his hipbones. Draco stretches his arms to the left and right, his fingers touching ingrain wallpaper, brushing a picture frame, a shelf and soft, heavy veils that feel like velvet. He winces when he hears a clock strike; he cannot hear it down in his cell, surely they have silencing charms on his cell.

He sniffs; he can smell food that has been prepared not too long ago. "Are you hungry?" Potter asks. "There are some left-overs." He leads Draco to a chair and he sits down reverently. How long has it been since he sat on a chair? He can hear Potter place a plate in front of him, then Potter's finger open his mouth and he can taste. At first, he does not know what it is, he is chewing slowly and carefully, trying to remember the taste of things he has eaten before.

It takes some time, but after a while he remembers what meat tastes like, and potatoes and vegetables. They taste amazing and his senses are almost overwhelmed with suddenly-remembered sensations. Out of breath, he slumps back, chewing, swallowing and gasping for air.

There is something heavy on his lap, Potter, and for the first time he inhales Potter's scent consciously; it is dark and heavy and reminds him of his childhood; of the dark trees on their estate whose bark he loved to peel off and smell the wood, so fresh and calm.

He cannot see Potter, he can only breathe in his scent, can only taste his lips, sweet and bitter like dark chocolate, can only feel Potter's hand slipping between his thighs, trembling in anticipation. He can only feel Potter's breath, getting heavier, hot on his neck. He is concentrated on Potter's heartbeat, his mind so sunken in the rhythm he feels like drowning in chocolate, sweet and warm and intoxicating.

Something abruptly rips him from his contemplation, however, the creaking sound of a door opening. With a jolt, he turns his hand. "They are coming," he whispers. Draco can already hear their steps when Potter jumps up and pulls Draco with him. Draco gasps with panic, but Potter clamps a hand over his mouth, dragging Draco with him. Draco stumbles against a wall, Potter stumbles against him and a door closes very quietly.

Draco inhales; it smells like broom polish and brush-wood; a scent that reminds him of flying, of endless skies, of freedom. He reaches out with his hands; he can feel Potter, breathing heavily against his neck and slowly removing his hand from Draco's mouth, and rough walls around him and slender, smooth brooms. He smiles; it has been a long time since he last touched a broom.

He can hear the others entering the kitchen, their voices are audible through the door. "Where is Harry?" Granger asks, her voice shrill and exhausted. "Harry? Where are you?"

Potter doesn't answer and she sighs loudly. "Maybe he went outside," Weasley suggests.

"But he never does," his younger sister replies.

"And rightfully so!" Granger says in a high-pitched voice. "It is way too dangerous for him to leave the house!"

"Recently I saw him coming in from the outside," Draco almost can't believe that it is Longbottom speaking, "it was icy outside and he didn't even wear a jacket. He must have frozen almost to death."

Are all of them here? Draco wonders. All of the ex-Gryffindors? Do they really want to sacrifice their life for a war they cannot win?

"He never freezes," Weasley says, sounding tired. "I don't know how he does it, but he is never cold. But…" _I know_, Draco thinks, _Potter is burning from the inside, burning with such fierce intensity that the cold cannot hurt him_. But any fire must cease burning one day; and the hotter it burns, the sooner it must die; and Draco does not want to think about when that day might come for Potter.

"Let us remember the dead," another, calm voice says, and after a while Draco can identify its owner to be Weasley's father.

A bottle is opened, glasses clank. Draco flinches when Potter's hands creep over his body; like a spider's legs his fingers trail over his chest, his stomach. His fingers are blazing hot whereas Draco trembles; broom closets are always kept cool so the broom polish does not get too fluid.

"Remember Nymphadora Tonks! Remember Hannah Abbott!" Weasley's father says in the same moment when Potter's fingers close around Draco's cock. Draco cannot suppress a gasp and neither the memory of Hannah Abbott, a short-witted, not particularly pretty witch in their year. She had been kind to everyone, even to him, but he had looked down on her; but that had been millennia ago, before their world has crumbled and fallen to pieces. And he remembers Nymphadora Tonks, his cousin, though he scarcely knew her; her mother and she had been banned from the Black family.

Their deaths do not touch him, and neither do they touch Potter, as his hands is moving faster up and down; and obviously they do not touch the others, as their names "Nymphadora! Hannah!" roll through the room again and again like waves, accompanied by the clinking of glasses as though the alcohol had to remind them who these women had been. Draco cried when Pansy Parkinson died, executed by Voldemort because she refused to kill a Muggle girl no older than five, and he cried when Blaise Zabini died, killed by Aurors, back when the Aurors still existed, but he grieved silently for Theodore Nott – he cannot even remember how he died. He drank to the deaths of Vincent and Gregory, one killed for giving information to the ministry, the other in a raid; but he can't remember which of them had been killed by whom. He hasn't bothered with other people dying afterwards.

Potter's mouth is on his and Draco forgets about the dead; the only things important are Potter's hand and his mouth. His left digs into Potter's neck, his right slips under Potter's waistband. The names and memories tumble through the room, heavy with alcohol, while both of their hands are working against reality.

His forearm hurts and his knees tremble, but he doesn't realize, he is carried away by a wave of arousal, by Potter's lips on his throat, by Potter's body, pressed against his own, by Potter's hand, pushing him towards his climax.

Without a sound, biting their lips, they come, whereas the others call the names of the dead for one last time. Warm, sticky liquid runs over Draco's fingers and trembling, he breathes against Potter's neck.

For a long time they remain like this, frozen in time while the world carries on around them; and they remain when the others are long gone and the only sounds is the fire crackling. The clock strikes twelve; Draco counts the strikes silently, only moving his lips. Suddenly, he is back in a world with time, but it does not matter to him, not anymore. Time has lost any meaning for him who lives a world of eternal twilight, only interrupted by Potter's visits.

Potter opens the door quietly and Draco's fingers brush over the brooms one last time longingly, then Potter leads him back down. This time, they count the steps in a whisper and a strange feeling creeps upon Draco when he enters his cell. Oddly, it feels like home, but soon enough he is overwhelmed by a longing for Potter who leaves him without another word.

xXx

Nothing happens between his next meals and so Draco spends his time dozing. It is the most comfortable way to make time pass, wavering, floating between sleep and consciousness. After a while, he falls asleep. When he wakes up, he is a woman. He already knows before opening his eyes because there is no way he could misinterpret the overly sweet taste, like rotten fruit, of the Turning Potion. He remembers very clearly how his father punished him like that regularly. After a few times of being humiliated by his father so much he wished he might die, he had learned his lesson and had stopped doing any kind of mischief. In return, he received cool acceptance and no more punishments from his father.

Back then, Draco was a girl, now he is a woman. He touches his long hair, his breasts, the place between his legs. He knows the potions is only effective for twelve hours, so he pulls the thread-bare blanket over his head, hoping Potter will not come today.

He knows Granger must have brewed the potion; she is the only one among them capable to do it. The process of brewing does not take very long, but it is highly intricate so only the best Potion Masters dare concoct this potion. He vaguely wonders why she might have done it – is it a cynical revenge for a remark – that she had a face like a man – he had made a thousand years ago at Hogwarts? Or does she simply want to humiliate him, without knowing his father had used the exact same method?

But then he realizes that the transformation has been without pain – she must have modified the potion and he feels a reluctant respect for her abilities. When he tries to remember all the ingredients – none of them very exotic, but not very common either – he falls asleep again and only wakes when he feels someone touching his shoulder. The overly sweet taste still lingers on his tongue and he turns his head, seeing Potter's face above him, illuminated by a flickering candle.

For the first time, Draco sees actual emotion on his face; fury. And against his own will, he is afraid of Potter's fury, wants to hide under his blanket, but Potter's fury is not directed against him. "Hermione thinks it might make a difference," he says, his voice darker than ever. "But I know the potion will lose effect soon. And she does not know that is does not matter to me what you look like, Malfoy."

The words make Draco shudder. It is the first time Potter calls him by his name and oddly, it touches something deep inside him. And there is a sticky fear, creeping up inside him; fear of what Potter might imply.

His fear does not leave when Potter lies down next to him, and kisses him, and strokes him, with fingers warm and rough. Draco cannot concentrate, he feels sweat running down his face, he is not used to his body; Potter's fingers feel the same, yet different. In his childhood, he never wanted to leave his room, wanted to spend the day hidden underneath his bed. But then the House Elves came and forced him into a frilly dress, as ordered by his father, and dragged him to the dining room. There his mother sat, silent tears running over her face, his father next to her, his face like a stone. Draco and his mother were silent, crying without a sound, eating with perfectly rehearsed moves, but everything tasted like tears underneath his father's quiet, stinging humiliations.

Draco has learned from it, has learned to hate this female body, and so his arousal is reluctant at first, by Potter's hands kneading his breasts, rubbing between his legs, by Potter's lips and teeth stimulating his nipples until he feels lightheaded. And then, Potter slips between his legs, his face in Draco's lap; he pushes his thighs apart and licks him almost into unconsciousness, until Draco's voice is hoarse from screaming, drowning in a sea of lust he has never known before, yet too exquisite to fight.

When Potter pushes into him oddly easily, Draco forgets about his surroundings. Shadows and flashes of light dance before his eyes, his breath is heavy and arrhythmic, his groan unusually high-pitched. Their hips are moving against each other when Potter thrusts into him, digging his fingers into too soft flesh, as though it were him and not Draco looking for something that he can hold onto. He can feel Potter's orgasm; his breath is heavy, his face glistening with sweat and his eyes are dark.

"Nothing," he whispers against Draco's throat, "there is nothing." He does not say anything else and Draco wonders what Potter hasn't said. There is nothing between them. There is nothing that will ever tear them apart. There is nothing that might stop Potter from wanting him. Again, Draco feels reminded of a wild animal and yet, nothing can stop him from wanting Potter.

xXx

When Draco wakes for the next time, no sickly sweet taste lingers on his tongue and he sighs with relief; his female body has reminded him too much of the humiliation in his childhood. He is unsettled by the fact that it does not matter for Potter who he is, what he is, what he looks like. But now, his world is straightened again, put back into its orderly place in his dark, muggy universe. In his universe where Potter wants him for what he is.

The door opens and Draco is not surprised when Potter enters, his face taut. His green eyes are bright in the candle light, like mirrors where Draco can only gaze himself but nothing else. Silently, Potter reaches for him and Draco walks up to him, closing his eyes willingly so Potter can blindfold him. He has dreamed of that; that feeling of not being able to see, but only to hear, smell, feel, taste. It is like a cloth of velvet, soft and warm and wonderful to touch until he drowns in it.

Again, they count the steps together, but this time Potter leads him further up, into a room where Draco's bare feet touch cold floor tiles. The door is closed behind him and Potter takes the blindfold from him. Draco screams, pressing his palms on his eyes; crude, unforgiving white burns his eyes, gouging his eyes out with rays of light.

For a few minutes, he remains standing, breathing heavily until he slowly lowers his hands from his eyes. His eyes are hazy with tears, but he manages to keeps them open. Never in his life has a view been so painful, so many tiles in a blinding white, making him breathe faster, in a room full of mirrors which makes it seem endless.

He is horrified by his reflection; his skin is as white as paper and almost as bright as the tiles, his shirt and trousers are no more than rags hanging from a skeleton, and his hands, still on his cheeks, are no more than pale spiders. Thin hair, almost white, brushes his shoulders like a puff of ice and his eyes are as huge as a House Elf's.

Then he looks as Potter, thinking he might see another reflection; only Potter's hair is as black as a starless night.

xXx

_There is nothing between us, nothing that keeps our souls, our thoughts apart. It is not love, it is not hatred, it is not indifference. It is desperation, as deep and as infinite as the ocean beneath me. It is endless exhaustion that may not be captured into words. It is defeat by darkness which has eaten up my soul; it is death that makes me take your hand._

xXx

"Dance with me," Potter whispers and his hands slip down Draco's sides towards his hips.

"There is no music," Draco whispers back.

"Then you must dream the music," Potter says, his eyes burning bright.

"But then I won't know the steps."

"I will lead," Potter says quietly.

"But then it is as though I were a woman," Draco whispers. Potter only laughs at that and places his hands on Draco's hips. It is uncomfortable, being led, and yet again, he feels reminded of his childhood. He will always be the little crying girl, hiding underneath his bed, until the House Elves come and force him into a dress. Never will he be able to forget the shame, and drunken with music he cannot hear, Draco begins to laugh.

He knows he can never flee, no matter how much Potter may whirl him around. Their steps are awkward, their moves arrhythmic, but their mouths find each other. Draco sees their reflections sway in the mirror, and Potter's hands that move along his body.

Nothing, nothing, there is nothing between them, nothing that might ever keep them apart. Draco pulls Potter close, digging his fingernails into his shoulders; and together they move and tumble until he is falling; and everything is so slow it seems time stretches around them.

Water closes above him and the song is drowned in warm water and he sinks farther until Potter pulls him up again. Fabric, heavy with water, drapes over cool marble and Potter rips off his trousers, slipping between his thighs. Draco moans, the sound drowning out the music in his mind, and then he sinks again until he hears nothing but the rush of his own heartbeat. Nothing matters but Potter's mouth, his lips on Draco's cock, licking and sucking.

He floats, and, only held by Potter's mouth, he does not know whether he is flying or drowning; he cannot see, cannot smell, cannot hear, cannot taste; he can only feel that his orgasm grips him, and with emotions flooding him, he almost forgets he has to break through the surface to breathe.

Almost unconscious with lack of oxygen, he pulls up again and inhales deeply, his throat burning. Potter emerges, water dripping from his hair, and sperm trickling from his lips.

They kiss, and Draco can taste his own sperm, he breathes deeply and dives down. His hair is like a pale crown upon his head; and around him the world is spinning. As Potter did, he pushes Potter's thighs apart, taking his cock in his mouth. He swallows water, and his eyes and his throat hurt, but he doesn't want to stop, for nothing in this world.

And when he thinks he must drown, Potter comes, into his mouth, and pulls him up to kiss him, greedily. He doesn't stop until the water is cold, and until Draco's lips are swollen and sore from kissing.

Then he wraps his arms around Draco, and Draco wraps his arms around him, their foreheads touching, and Draco tries to remember whether they have hugged each other before. Trying to remember, he falls asleep, carried into nothingness by Potter's heartbeat, strong and slow against his chest.

xXx

When Draco wakes, he is alone in his cell. A quick grip confirms that his clothes are still slightly wet. He gets up, screaming Potter's name, again and again, his hands clawing the fabric of his shirt. He screams until his throat and his lungs hurt, then he stops, sobbing drily. "Potter," he whispers, "Potter, Potter, Potter…" The words slip from his lips like in a fever dream, but Potter never comes.

xXx

Hours later, Draco sits up with a jolt – he knows something is different. He turns his head quickly, looking around his cell until he realizes the difference. The door is open. Quick as a bird, he rushes to the door. There is a crumbled piece of parchment on the floor, he picks it up and squints at it. It is dark and he hasn't read anything for the longest time – he has a hard time remembering the letters and words. Still, he would recognize Potter's writing among thousands.

_We have played a game, you and Voldemort and I. But he won and I lost everything – yet you are not finished… Hope is lost for us, so you must go and do what must be done. Everything ends here, but not for you. I…_

The letter ends with a scrawl he cannot decipher. Silently, he repeats the words over and over again, but they cannot be changed. He bends down again to pick up the wand lying on the floor. It's Potter's wand, not his own, but it feels similar, long and willing in his fingers. "Lumos," he whispers, and finally, there is light again in his world. He only returns to his cell to pick up the small bag with coins – it is heavy. _Weasley has known_, he thinks and he cannot stop the tears running down his face. Guilt constricts his breath, but still he stuffs the little bag into his pocket. _Traitor, traitor, traitor_, the coins clink.

He has no shoes, he must walk barefoot. The wand in his right, the parchment in his left, he walks down the corridor without looking back. _Everything ends here_.

His eyes closed, he climbs up the stairs, listening for sounds. Everything is completely silent, though; only a clock ticks quietly, as if time, which has stopped in his cell, has begun again. He walks through the house slowly; it takes him a few minutes to find the kitchen. There is a calendar on the wall; it's the twenty-first of March. He cannot remember the date he has been captured; he can only remember snow. Slowly, hesitantly, he walks to the window and stares into a world he has not seen for the longest time. There is an unkempt garden; tiny white flowers blooming and a thin layer of frost covering the muddy grass. The sky is dull and grey and Draco is happy the sun is not up yet, for even the feeble light of the Lumos hurts his eyes.

He finds a few slices of toast and cheese and he eats them without hurrying. He boils some water for a tea, enjoying the heat and the taste.

_All hope is lost._

He gets up and walks to the broom closet, grabbing a broom that reminds him of his old Nimbus 2001, from a million years ago, when he had known nothing of the horrors of this world.

Wistfully, he carries the broom to the door and opens it. The stairs, made of stone, are like ice underneath his bare soles and he hastily steps onto the grass, which is cool and wet and makes squishy sounds with every step he takes. The air is fresh and clear, and he inhales deeply – he will never forget that scent; then he climbs onto the broom and rises.

The wards tickle his skin and he has to squint in order not to be blinded by the sun. Carefully he memorizes his surroundings: the house, old and shabby, the streets and the village. When he closes his eyes, he can see everything in his mind – so he takes off, wondering if Potter is awake, standing at a window, looking after him. _I have lost everything_.

The sun is not high yet when they capture him. A Death Eater patrol on brooms; without resistance, he follows them, lets them take his broom and his wand. They land in a destroyed village and apparate to the Dark Lord's Head Quarter. After he has been searched for weapons, he is brought to the Dark Lord himself. He is sitting in a huge hall on a throne-like stone chair; there are snakes of stone along the walls and in the dim light, they almost look alive. Draco vaguely wonders whether the Dark Lord spends all day sitting on his throne, or if he only happened to when they brought him in. _He has won_.

"Ah," Lord Voldemort says, smiling at him, "the traitor has returned to make yet another betrayal."

Draco bites his lip and lowers his head.

"Kneel," the Dark Lord orders and Draco obeys hastily. "After you… left us, having decided to go your own way, I _questioned_ your parents." Draco dares to raise his eyes and sees the Dark Lord smiling again. It makes him shudder. "They paid for your fault. But Lord Voldemort is merciful; he gave them a rather quick death."

Draco swallows and wants to cry, but he doesn't, because he has known all along – it doesn't change anything now.

"And now," the Dark Lord's voice is dangerously low, "purge your fault."

Draco looks up at him, projecting the image of the Order's Head Quarter in his mind. Lord Voldemort's attack on his mind is short and brutal; Draco gasps for air when he rips the memory from Draco's mind.

"Finally," he says, "finally the moment of my triumph is come." He rises, tall and thin and fearsome. He straightens his robes and strides away, paying no more attention to Draco.

Death Eaters hurrying up to him and bring him to a cell in Lord Voldemort's dungeons. It feels almost like home, he thinks; his fingers touch cool, rough stone walls and sighing, he sinks to the floor and waits.

He is almost grateful his imprisonment has dulled his senses as well as his emotions so the guilt does not dig into his mind that painfully. He doesn't know what has been between Potter and him, but he knows he has destroyed it. He has destroyed everything. But he knows Potter wanted him to.

Only a short time has passed until the Dark Lord returns to his cell. "The Wizarding World is mine, finally," he says quietly. "I thank you, Malfoy."

Draco bites his lip and doesn't answer.

Lord Voldemort laughs. "And as the Dark Lord is merciful, he brought you a gift. A gift, a reward for your deed. Follow me," he orders and Draco scrambles to his feet. They walk through dark corridors, so quickly he is out of breath soon – he hasn't run for months and months. From above, he can hear Death Eaters celebrating, but the Dark Lord is obviously unbothered.

He stops in front of a closed door, smiling his cruel smile at Draco, and opens the door. On the ground, there is a gaunt, bent figure with black hair. It doesn't even take a second to recognize him: It's Potter.

"I was in his mind," Lord Voldemort whispers. "I was in his head, every day, every hour, every minute. I broke his mind, slowly, but surely. I destroyed all of his memories, one by one; I took all of his emotions, one by one. He was weak, but he fought, he fought hard, but there was no way he could win. Once I almost thought he might yet win, his obsession for you making him stronger again, but he was too weak. You were too weak. He was mine, and he knew he had lost." _I have lost everything and he has won_. "In the end, he understood and gave up. His body lives on, though, but the dementors have taken his soul, his mind, whatever you may call it; and he is mine, now."

Draco trembles, but he cannot speak, any word might choke him. "He is mine," the Dark Lord repeats, "but his body belongs to you. I watched you through his eyes; I know all you did," his finger touches Draco's cheek and he shudders, "and I know you want him. Take him, as a gift, as a token of Lord Voldemort's endless mercy."

Slowly, Draco walks into the cell, kneeling to touch Potter's skin. His hands are warm, his heartbeat is slow and steady. Carefully, Draco touches his forehead – a deep gash where his lightning scar has been – and Potter's eyes open. They are empty, though, and reflect Draco's pale, frightened face. Draco wants to lift him up, but as soon as he starts pulling, Potter gets up; his movements slow and stiff, nothing of his predator-like elegance left.

His head bowed, his shoulders slumped, he stands and Draco shoves him into the direction of the door. Obediently, Potter starts walking slowly and Draco places his hands on his shoulders, leading him out of the door. Voldemort is watching them with bright, red eyes, a cruel smile playing over his lips. "I wish you a pleasant day," he says, and then he laughs.

Draco's fingernails dig into Potter's shoulders and he shoves him again to make him walk faster, but he can still hear Voldemort laughing when he leaves the fortress.

xXx

Without haste, Draco strolls through the house, which is silent without any signs of human life. Some doors are half-open, the beds untidy; there is a broken glass in front of one nightstand.

In Potter's room, he sits down onto the bed and looks around the room. There are pictures on the wall; of Potter's parents; of Potter, Weasley and Granger, arms wrapped around each other; of Potter amidst Weasleys, his black standing out among a sea of red; of Potter with the Gryffindor Quidditch Team; of Lupin, Black and his father; of Weasley and Granger, smiling and kissing. Draco takes all of them down, carefully so they do not wrinkle. He lies on the bed for a while, inhaling Potter's scent and crying silently.

_Everything ends here._

He does not go back down to his cell, and he does not look back when he leaves the house.

xXx

_My fingers are sore from digging, but the hole is deep enough now. Slowly, I place the photos in rough, sandy ground and close the hole again. I place a large stone on top of it; I carved your name into it with your wand. The stone is heavy; but at least I can be sure it will stay here for all times. I don't know if anyone will ever find it, along the fissured coast of Scotland, and if they find it, if they will even know you; but it makes no matter._

_The only thing that matters is not that your body is buried here, but the things that mattered to you. I am kneeling at the edge of the cliff, clinging to your body, which is still so unnaturally warm, despite the rough wind. For a few minutes, I warm my hands in yours, then I kiss your lips – as ever, you do not kiss me back. You don't react to anything I do to you; I tried, I kissed you everywhere; I stroked and licked and bit and punched and kicked, but you never even blinked._

_I breathe deeply and get up slowly, your body pressed against mine. I can only believe you wanted it; but I know that I want it; I want to be together with you, for ever and ever. There is nothing that will ever keep us apart; I know the truth of these words now. I hold you tight, so tight we are like one body._

_And we are falling, together, as one; and the sea welcomes us, deep and endless and full of mercy._

xXx

A/N: Well, as I said it is quite dark... still, I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know in a review what you think! :)


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